Gun in hand, Rollins took a single stride toward the tapestries — then halted short, staring at the figure which moved imperturbably through them: a tall yellow man in the robes of a mandarin, who smiled and bowed, his hands hidden in his wide sleeves.
“You killed Yarghous Barolass!” accused the detective.
“The evil one indeed has been dispatched to join his ancestors by my hand,” agreed the mandarin. “Be not afraid. The Mongol who covered you through a peep-hole with an abbreviated shotgun has likewise departed this uncertain life, suddenly and silently. My own people hold supreme in the House of Dreams this night. All that we ask is that you make no attempt to stay our departure.”
“Who are you?” demanded Rollins.
“But a humble servant of Fang Yin, lord of Peking. When it was learned that these unworthy ones sought a formula in America that might enable the upstart Yah Lai to overthrow the government of China, word was sent in haste to me. It was almost too late. Two men had already died. The third was menaced.”
“I sent my servants instantly to intercept the evil Sons of Erlik at the vaults they desecrated. But for your appearance, frightening the Mongols to scattering in flight, before the trap could be sprang, my servants would have caught them all in ambush. As it was, they did manage to slay he who carried the relic Yarghouz sought, and this they brought to me.”
“I took the liberty of impersonating a servant of the Mongol in my speech with you, and of pretending to be a Chinese agent of yours, while speaking with Yarghouz. All worked out as I wished. Lured by the thought of the tooth, at the loss of which he was maddened, Yarghouz came from his secret, well-guarded lair, and fell into my hands. I brought you here to witness his execution, so that you might realize that Mr. Willoughby is no longer in danger. Fang Yin has no ambitions for world empire; he wishes but to hold what is his. That he is well able to do, now that the threat of the devil-gas is lifted. And now I must be gone. Yarghouz had laid careful plans for his flight out of the country. I will take advantage of his preparations.”
“Wait a minute!” exclaimed Rollins. “I’ve got to arrest you for the murder of this rat.”
“I am sorry,” murmured the mandarin. “I am in much haste. No need to lift your revolver. I swore that you would not be injured and I keep my word.”
As he spoke, the light went suddenly out. Rollins sprang forward, cursing, fumbling at the tapestries which had swished in the darkness as if from the passing of a large body between them. His fingers met only solid walls, and when at last the light came on again, he was alone in the room, and behind the hangings a heavy door had been slid shut. On the divan lay something that glinted in the lamplight, and Rollins looked down on a curiously carven gold tooth.
Spicy Stories
LIST OF STORIES
THE PURPLE HEART OF ERLIK
SHE DEVIL
THE DRAGON OF KAO TSU
THE PURPLE HEART OF ERLIK
A WILD BILL CLANTON STORY
First published in Spicy-Adventure Stories, November 1936
“YOU’LL do what I tell you — or else!” Duke Tremayne smiled cruelly as he delivered his ultimatum. Across the table from him Arline Ellis clenched her white hands in helpless rage. Duke Tremayne, world adventurer, was tall, slim, darkly mustached, handsome in a ruthless way; and many women looked on him with favor. But Arline hated him, with as good reason as she feared him.
But she ventured a flare of rebellion.
“I won’t do it! It’s too risky!”
“Not half as risky as defying me!” he reminded her. “I’ve got you by the seat of your pretty pants, my dear. How would you like to have me tell the police why you left Canton in such a hurry? Or tell them my version of that night in Baron Takayami’s apartment—”
“Hush!” she begged. She was trembling as she glanced fearfully about the little curtained alcove in which they sat. It was well off the main floor of the Bordeaux Cabaret; even the music from the native orchestra came only faintly to their ears. They were alone, but the words he had just spoken were dynamite, not even safe for empty walls to hear.
“You know I didn’t kill him—”
“So you say. But who’d believe you if I swore I saw you do it?”
She bent her head in defeat. This was the price she must pay for an hour of folly. In Canton she had been indiscreet enough to visit the apartments of a certain important Japanese official. It had been only the harmless escapade of a thrill-hunting girl.
She had found more thrills than she wanted, when the official had been murdered, almost before her eyes, by his servant, who she was sure was a Russian spy. The murderer had fled, and so had she, but not before she had been seen leaving the house by Duke Tremayne, a friend of the slain official. He had kept silent. But the murderer had taken important documents with him in his flight, and there was hell to pay in diplomatic circles.
It had been an international episode, that almost set the big guns of war roaring in the East. The murder and theft remained an unsolved mystery to the world at large, a wound that still rankled in the capitals of the Orient.
Arline had fled the city in a panic, realizing she could never prove her innocence, if connected with the affair. Tremayne had followed her to Shanghai and laid his cards on the table. If she did not comply with his wishes, he’d go to the police and swear he saw her murder the Jap. And she knew his testimony would send her to a firing squad, for various governments were eager for a scape-goat with which to conciliate the wrathful Nipponese.
Terrified, Arline submitted to the blackmail. And now Tremayne had told her the price of his silence. It was not what she had expected, though, from the look in his eyes as he devoured her trim figure from blonde hair to French heels, she felt it would come to that eventually. But here in the Bordeaux, a shady rendezvous in the shadowy borderland between the European and the native quarters, he had set her a task that made her flesh crawl.
He had commanded her to steal the famous Heart of Erlik, the purple ruby belonging to Woon Yuen, a Chinese merchant of powerful and sinister connections.
“So many men have tried,” she argued. “How can I hope to succeed? I’ll be found floating in the Yangtze with my throat cut, just as they were.”
“You’ll succeed,” he retorted. “They tried force or craft; we’ll use a woman’s strategy. I’ve learned where he keeps it — had a spy working in his employ and he learned that much. He keeps it in a wall safe that looks like a dragon’s head, in the inner chamber of his antique shop, where he keeps his rarest goods, and where he never admits anybody but wealthy women collectors. He entertains them there alone, which makes it easy.”
“But how am I going to steal it, with him in there with me?”
“Easy!” he snapped. “He always serves his guests tea. You watch your chance and drop this knock-out pill in his tea.”
He pressed a tiny, faintly odorous sphere into her hand.
“He’ll go out like a candle. Then you open the safe, take the ruby and skip. It’s like taking candy from a baby. One reason I picked you for this job, you have a natural gift for unraveling Chinese puzzles. The safe doesn’t have a dial. You press the dragon’s teeth. In what combination, I don’t know. That’s for you to find out.”
“But how am I going to get into the inner chamber?” she demanded.
“That’s the cream of the scheme,” he assured her. “Did you ever hear of Lady Elizabeth Willoughby? Well, every antique dealer in the Orient knows her by sight or reputation. She’s never been to Shanghai, though, and I don’t believe Woon Yuen ever saw her. That’ll make it easy to fool him. She’s a young English woman with exotic ideas and she spends her time wandering around the world collecting rare Oriental art treasures. She’s worth millions, and she’s a free spender.
“Well, you look enough like her in a general way to fit in with any description Woon Yuen’s likely to have heard. You’re about the same height, same color of hair and eyes, same kind of figure—” his eyes lit with a
dmiration as they dwelt on the trim curves of bosom and hips. “And you can act, too. You can put on an English accent that would fool the Prince of Wales, and act the high-born lady to a queen’s taste.
“I’ve seen Lady Elizabeth’s cards, and before I left Canton I had one made, to match. You see I had this in mind, even then.” He passed her a curious slip of paper-thin jade, carved with scrawling Chinese characters.
“Her name, of course, in Chinese. She spends a small fortune on cards like that, alone. Now go back to your apartment and change into the duds I had sent up there — scarlet silk dress, jade-green hat, slippers with ivory heels, and a jade brooch. That’s the way Lady Elizabeth always dresses. Eccentric? You said it! Go to Woon Yuen’s shop and tell him you want to see the ivory Bon. He keeps it in the inner chamber. When you get in there, do your stuff, but be careful! They say Woon Yuen worships that ruby, and burns incense to it. But you’ll pull the wool over his eyes, all right. Be careful he doesn’t fall for youl Couldn’t blame him if he did.”
He was leaning toward her, and his hand was on her knee. She flinched at the feel of his questing fingers. She loathed his caresses, but she dared not repulse him. He was arrogantly possessive, and she did not doubt that when — and if — she returned with the coveted gem, he would demand the ultimate surrender. And she knew she would not dare refuse him. Tears of helpless misery welled to her eyes, but he ignored them. Grudgingly he withdrew his hand and rose.
“Go out by the back way. When you get the ruby, meet me at room Number 7, in the Alley of Rats — you know the place. Shanghai will be too hot for you, and we’ll have to get you out of town in a hurry. And remember, sweetheart,” his voice grew hard as his predatory eyes, and his arm about her waist was more a threat than a caress, “if you double-cross me, or if you flop on this job, I’ll see you stood before a Jap firing squad if it’s the last thing I do. I won’t accept any excuses, either. Get me?”
His fingers brushed her chin, trailed over the soft white curve of her throat, to her shoulder; and as he voiced his threat, he dug them in like talons, emphasizing his command with a brutality that made Arline bite her lip to keep from crying out with pain.
“Yes, I get you.”
“All right. Get going.” He spanked her lightly and pushed her toward a door opposite the curtained entrance beyond which the music blared.
The door opened into a long narrow alley that eventually reached the street. As Arline went down this alley, seething with rebellion and dismay for the task ahead of her, a man stepped from a doorway and stopped her. She eyed him suspiciously, though concealing a secret throb of admiration for a fine masculine figure.
He was big, broad-shouldered, heavy-fisted, with smoldering blue eyes and a mop of unruly black hair under a side-tilted seaman’s cap. And he was Wild Bill Clanton, sailor, gun-runner, blackbirder, pearl-poacher, and fighting man de luxe.
“Will you get out of my way?” she demanded.
“Wait a minute, Kid!” He barred her way with a heavy arm, and his eyes blazed as they ran over the smooth bland curves of her blond loveliness. “Why do you always give me the shoulder? I’ve made it a point to run into you in a dozen ports, and you always act like I had the plague.”
“You have, as far as I’m concerned,” she retorted.
“You seem to think Duke Tremayne’s healthy,” he growled resentfully.
She flinched at the name of her master, but answered spiritedly: “What I see in Duke Tremayne’s none of your business. Now let me pass!”
But instead he caught her arm in a grip that hurt.
“Damn your saucy little soul!” he ripped out, anger fighting with fierce desire in his eyes. “If I didn’t want you so bad, I’d smack your ears back! What the hell! I’m as good a man as Duke Tremayne. I’m tired of your superior airs. I came to Shanghai just because I heard you were here. Now are you going to be nice, or do I have to get rough?”
“You wouldn’t dare!” she exclaimed. “I’ll scream—”
A big hand clapped over her mouth put a stop to that.
“Nobody interferes with anything that goes on in alleys behind dumps like the Bordeaux,” he growled, imprisoning her arms and lifting her off her feet, kicking and struggling. “Any woman caught here’s fair prey.”
He kicked open the door through which he had reached the alley, and carried Arline into a dim hallway. Traversing this with his writhing captive, he shoved open a door that opened on it. Arline, crushed against his broad breast, felt the tumultuous pounding of his heart, and experienced a momentary thrill of vanity that she should rouse such stormy emotion in Wild Bill Clanton, whose exploits with the women of a hundred ports were as widely celebrated as his myriad bloody battles with men.
He entered a bare, cobwebby room, and set her on her feet, placing his back against the door.
“Let me out of here, you beast!” She kicked his shins vigorously.
He ignored her attack.
“Why don’t you be nice?” he begged. “I don’t want to be rough with you. Honest, kid, I’d be good to you — better than Tremayne probably is—”
For answer she bent her blonde head and bit his wrist viciously, even though discretion warned her it was probably the worst thing she could do.
“You little devil!” he swore, grabbing her. “That settles it!”
Scornful of her resistance he crushed her writhing figure against his chest, and kissed her red lips, her furious eyes, her flaming cheeks and white throat, until she lay panting and breathless, unable to repel the possessive arms that drew her closer and closer.
She squirmed and moaned with mingled emotions as he sank his head, eagerly as a thirsty man bending to drink, and pressed his burning lips to the tender hollow of her throat. One hand wandered lower, to her waist, locked her against him despite her struggles.
In a sort of daze she found herself on the dingy cot, with her skirt bunched about her hips. The gleam of her own white flesh, so generously exposed, brought her to her senses, out of the maze of surrender into which his strength was forcing her. Her agile mind worked swiftly. As she sank back, suddenly she shrieked convulsively.
“My back! Something’s stabbed me! A knife in the mattress—”
“What the hell?” He snatched her up instantly and whirled her about, but she had her hands pressed over the small of her back, and was writhing and moaning in well-simulated pain.
“I’m sorry, kid—” he began tearing the mattress to pieces, trying to find what had hurt her, and as he turned his back, she snatched a heavy pitcher from the wash-stand and smashed it over his head.
Not even Wild Bill Clanton could stand up under a clout like that. He went down like a pole-axed ox — or bull, rather — and she darted through the door and down the hall. Behind her she heard a furious roar that lent wings to her small high heels. She sprang into the alley and ran up it, not stopping to arrange her garments.
As she emerged into the street, a backward glance showed her Clanton reeling out into the alley, streaming blood, a raging and formidable figure. But she was on a semi-respectable street, with people strolling past and Sikh policemen within call. He wouldn’t dare come out of the alley after her. She walked sedately away, arranging her dress as she went. A few loungers had seen her run from the alley, but they merely smiled in quiet amusement and made no comment. It was no novelty in that quarter to see a girl run from a back alley with her breasts exposed and her skirt pulled awry.
But a few deft touches smoothed out her appearance, and a moment later, looking cool, unruffled and demure as though she had just stepped out of a beauty shop, she was headed for her apartment, where waited the garments she must don for her dangerous masquerade.
An hour later she entered the famous antique shop of Woon Yuen, which rose in the midst of a squalid native quarter like a cluster of jewels in a litter of garbage. Outside it was unpretentious, but inside, even in the main chamber with its display intended to catch the fancy of tourists and casual collectors,
the shop was a colorful riot of rich artistry.
A treasure trove in jade, gold, and ivory was openly exhibited, apparently unguarded. But the inhabitants of the quarter were not fooled by appearances. Not one would dare to try to rob Woon Yuen. Arline fought down a chill of fear.
A cat-footed Chinese bowed before her, hands concealed in his wide silken sleeves. She eyed him with the languid indifference of an aristocrat, and said, with an accent any Briton would have sworn she was born with: “Tell Woon Yuen that Lady Elizabeth Willoughby wishes to see the ivory Bon.” The slant eyes of the impassive Chinese widened just a trifle at the name. With an even lower bow, he took the fragment of jade with the Chinese characters, and kowtowed her into an ebony chair with dragon-claw feet, before he disappeared through the folds of a great dark velvet tapestry which curtained the back of the shop.
She sat there, glancing indifferently about her, according to her role. Lady Elizabeth would not be expected to show any interest in the trifles displayed for the general public. She believed she was being spied on through some peephole. Woon Yuen was a mysterious figure, suspected of strange activities, but so far untouchable, either by his many enemies or by the authorities. When he came, it was so silently that he was standing before her before she was aware of his entrance. She glanced at him, masking her curiosity with the bored air of an English noblewoman.
Woon Yuen was a big man, for a Chinese, squattily built, yet above medium height. His square, lemon-tinted face was adorned with a thin wisp of drooping mustachios, and his bull-like shoulders seemed ready to split the seams of the embroidered black silk robe he wore. He had come to Shanghai from the North, and there was more Mongol than Chinese in him, as emphasized by his massive forearms, impressive even beneath his wide sleeves. He bowed, politely but not obsequiously. He seemed impressed, but not awed by the presence of the noted collector in his shop.
Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four) Page 399